Cut
by Yochan
Summary: Schuldig eases the last moments of a captive. Mild Schuldig/Yohji. Deathfic.


Funny how the world just shrinks to nothing when you're wearing a black sack over your head.   
  
Kudou Yohji decided that honestly, right now, more than anything, he wanted a clean, cool breath of air. Something other than his own recycled breath, too hot and unsatisfying, like each time he was breathing he was only getting half a lung-full.   
  
And the gun barrel somehow managed to still feel cold, through the layer of black cotton and the thick mass of his hair. Funny, just like they say in stories. Fucking cold.   
  
_That's because you're afraid, Kudou. And honestly, you can't think of a single better thing to wish for right now? Me? I'd be wishing for...oh, I don't know. A bullet-proof head?_  
  
Another inconvenience about a black hood is that no one can see it when you muster a completely perfect glare.   
  
Brad Crawford covered the mouthpiece on his cellular phone, pausing his business call long enough to shoot the telepath a sharp look.   
  
"Schuldig." A warning.   
  
The redhead tried to wipe the smirk off his face, as he shifted his weight from "lounging gleefully" to "full attention and very responsible."   
  
The older man continued talking then, errant redhead ignored, the gun in his hand stirring against the back of Balinese's head as he gestured once in a while, to the voice miles and miles away.   
  
Yohji shifted his weight as well, wishing now that the man would just get off the fucking phone and do it. His wrists hurt from being bound. And he was tired.   
  
_That's even less original._  
  
The telepath sat at the edge of the crate, dangling his feet now, like a bored child. His blue eyes danced as he "spoke" to his captive.   
  
"Fuck you," came Yohji's nearly inaudible, muffled, reply.   
  
Before he gasped, and went just slightly limp, his chin bowing to his chest. Underneath the stifling hood, his eyes closed.   
  
And then he was on a bed, and a flurry of rust-red hair was tickling his face. And someone was undressing him.   
  
"What the...fuck. Schuldig? What. WHAT?"   
  
"Fucking Christ, Kudou. Relax, I'm trying to give you some pleasing last moments here."   
  
Oh.   
  
Oh.   
  
He sank back in the pillows.   
  
Pillows. Big fluffy ones.   
  
"Are you doing this?"   
  
That got him a long, long look, just as his pants were being unceremoniously removed.   
  
"You really are slow, aren't you?"   
  
"Crawford's going to shoot me." A distracted, matter-of-fact reply, his eyes focused off somewhere else.   
  
"I'm going to suck your dick now, would you mind paying me any attention? Any at all."   
  
Yohji blinked and then watched him quietly.   
  
"I'm going to die."   
  
"Yes." A more serious reply. "As soon as he hangs up the phone." And then a sigh. "This could be a whole fucking lot more fun than you're making it."   
  
Yohji stared at him a moment.   
  
"All right."   
  
And then he gasped, because Schuldig really was. Really was. And apparently his penis was quite a few steps ahead of his train of thought, because he was already going hard in the sucking, tight pleasure of the redhead's mouth.   
  
"Why," a gasp, "are you doing this? Oh. Ah-fuck."   
  
_Jesus, Kudou. Stop thinking._ A strange edge to the telepath's "voice."   
  
It was hard not to feel, and hard to think, then.   
  
Because Schuldig was around him, touching him with a deep, strange concentration. The other man's eyes were closed, and he bobbed his head fast, and took him in deep, and worked at him and worked at him with a determination that started to become hurried and desperate.   
  
That's odd...why is he in such a hu--   
  
As the gunshot echoed in the bleak hallway, the redhead tumbled off his perch. He landed hard on his knees, and doubled over to the floor, whimpering.   
  
"Fuck...fuck....fuck...."   
  
Amusing that people liked to write pretty things about life snuffing out like the pretty flame on a candle. A soft little "whoosh." A sighed last breath.   
  
The redhead was gasping and swallowing, death in his mouth and throat.   
  
"Schuldig. You know better than that." A dull comment.   
  
Brad Crawford crouched to check the pulse of the crumpled body at his feet. His fingers came away bloodstained.   
  
He stood and carefully cleaned his fingers, and then his gun, before placing it back in the holster under his coat.   
  
The whimpering slowly became choked off, sobbed laughter. It was a strange sound that echoed just enough across the smooth concrete, to be slightly unsettling.   
  
Brad Crawford shook his head once, and walked to the broad double doors, his shoes making an almost comically perfect snapping sound.   
  
"And clean up that mess."

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